He sits on his old beaten down chair. The guitar in his hand rings as he plugs in the amp. His brown hair leaps up with volume as he flicks it back. The look in his deep brown eyes softens when he strums his first chord. Dimples form valleys on his cheeks when he hears the satisfying strain of the string under his fingers. His playing is almost effortless, like he’s perfectly comfortable in his skin. The smell of old spice and smoke drowns the room in perfect balance. At first glance, it’s like he’s on stage, soaking in the audience’s applause and mesmerized looks. He stands up, and walks over to his acoustic. His hands run along the glossy smooth wood. He sits down and readies the guitar on his lap. He strums an open chord and lets it sing out, knowing it sounds impeccable. His smile shows how much he cares for the music, and how passionate he is to create. He brushes his hair back again, effortlessly tossing it back into its original position. His eyes start to glow, his mouth grows into that passionate grin, and he begins to strum again. This time the music continuously flows from his fingers. He plays chord after chord playing to his enjoyment. He makes eye contact with me and I’m mesmerized, the way it pours out of him and into the cold, basement room, is intoxicating. The culminating sound of the music is enough to fill the entire house, as if he’s playing for the world to hear. His eyes gloss over when he gets engrossed in his playing. He’s lost in his own world of creation, and he’s thriving. He doesn’t think as it happens. He lets the music pour from the guitar as it comes to his head and then moving on to the next. His passion for doing what he loves is stunning. His eyes phase back into reality. His fingers slow down. His smile dims, and he’s done. He’s created a masterpiece. He sets down his acoustic, gets up from the rickety chair, and moves on to his next adventure.